Domovoi
by Lennelle
Summary: There's an old man in the attic. At least, Sam thinks it's an old man.


This is a stranger, creepy, and probably confusing story. Written for the sisterhoodofsam rejects challenge, in which participants had to write a Sam-centred story about monsters that haven't appeared on the show. We were supposed to pick the monsters based on the names on the list they gave us, and not research them unti we'd chosen so it would be a surprise. I got the Domovoi, which I will tell you about at the end. I hope you find this one interesting!

* * *

The dishes are scrubbed so clean Sam can almost see his reflection in the white ceramic. He almost shudders at the sight of Dean's plate, smeared with ketchup and greasy from the oven fries he just ate. Sam watches as he walks over to the sink and… leaves the plate on the counter.

He doesn't clean it, doesn't even rinse it off, just returns to his spot on the couch and flicks through the channels on the old black-and-white TV set.

Instinctively, Sam's eyes turn up to the ceiling, ears sharp and focused for even the slightest creak in the attic. Nothing, not even the scuffle of the family of mice that inhabit their tiny age-worn cabin.

There's an old man in the attic. At least, Sam thinks it's an old man. He has two arms and two legs, wrinkled skin all over, and little beady eyes that peek out from under folds of sagging skin. His face is all white and fuzzy with hair like he's never shaved once in his life. Sam calls him Grandpa.

Grandpa's been quiet recently. Maybe he's been in a happier mood since Dad went away for the week. The house is quieter without Dad. Grandpa likes the quiet.

Sam picks up his own dinner plate and carries it over to the sink. He fills up the tub with hot water and rubs their only bar of soap until there's a layer of suds, tiny bubbles catching pink and blue and green, drifting away and vanishing with a _pop_.

He scrubs both plates until they shine like the rest, glancing upwards in case he gets some hint of Grandpa's approval. The beams overhead don't creak, the walls don't thud. It should be a quiet evening.

In bed, like every night since they moved in, Sam is still awake long after Dean has begun snoring. He tucks his blanket up over his chin and squints into the dark. There, under the stove, the soft white of hair and the shine of beady black eyes. Grandpa is watching. He crawls out from underneath, slow, joints creaking, and he gets to work.

With only the soft cast of moonlight and the last embers in their fireplace, Sam watches Grandpa rub the dishes by the sink dry and carefully replace them in the cupboards. He sweeps the kitchen floor, plumps the cushions on the couch, and straightens their boots by the door.

Sam is hot under the blanket, beginning to sweat under his arms and on the palms of his hands, but he just tucks the quilt higher. Grandpa won't hurt him, hasn't ever hurt him. Sam shrinks back as he moves out of the kitchen, past the TV, and sits down on the wooden stool at the end of his bed.

He grins at Sam and reaches out one long, bony finger to tickle his toes. Sam jerks his feet up higher, knees against his chest, and presses himself closer to Dean.

* * *

Morning arrives and Sam is feeling more tired than the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. Dean forces him outside to shoot empty beer bottles off a fence, Sam misses every one and thinks _it's going to make a mess._

Dean has no qualms smashing each glass into pieces, and Sam's itching until the gun has been unloaded before he hurries over and carefully collects the broken shards in his hands. Dean raises an eyebrow at him, but shrugs it off as Sam's usual strangeness.

It's when they're searching through the fridge for dinner and find nothing but a single slice of ham and a shrivelled half of tomato that Sam begins to worry. Dean shrugs and climbs up onto the counter – his shoes are still caked in mud, that's not good at all – to rummage through the cupboards. He finds a few handfuls of pasta which he boils and serves up with a sprinkling of shredded ham and diced tomato. He leaves the pan still steam-stained and dirty in the sink. Sam scrubs it clean and wipes the mud from Dean's shoes off the bench before he can eat. He sits down and slurps up a cold noodle. Dean stares at him.

"What's with the cleaning?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. "Don't like it being dirty."

Dean's expression changes from amused to concerned, brows pulling together at the middle. He doesn't say much more, Dean doesn't ask too many questions if they'll give him answers he doesn't like. Sam can't give him answers, anyway. He knows what'll happen to Grandpa if Dean or Dad find out.

The sun goes down and the sky turns black, Grandpa comes slowly out from under the oven to clean the cabin. For the hours until sunrise, Sam hides under his blanket and tries to ignore the looming presence at the end of his bed. He can feel bony fingers on his blanket, tickling at his feet. He squeezes his eyes closed and buries his face into Dean's back.

In the morning, Sam is starving, eyes puffy and itchy with grit. He desperately needs to sleep, is tempted to dip his head back under the covers and let himself drift off.

"Sam, look at this!" Dean cries. He doesn't sound pissed, quite the opposite. Sam braves the cold of the room, abandoning the safety of his bed to see what Dean is ogling at. The rickety old table in the kitchen is covered in plates of food. There's orange juice in a jug he's never seen before, a stack of pancakes on an unfamiliar plate. Dean sits down and starts piling his plate high with bacon and eggs and a drizzle of syrup.

Sam knows right away that this food is stolen, probably from one of the brick houses at the bottom of the hill. Grandpa takes care of them, cleans the cabin and fetches food when they run out, but Sam knows it's no good if Grandpa keeps coming down from the attic.

He wanders over to the window to see the bright red roofs of the houses below. He can hear the frantic barking of a dog.

"Dad must have gone back out again," Dean says, shovelling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "It's weird that he didn't wake us up."

Sam turns around and takes in the spread on the table. His stomach growls, there's a gentle creak in the attic, and he takes a seat beside his brother, pulling a pancake off the top of the pile.

* * *

Dad's pissed when he gets home, covered in grime and sweat and blood. He always catches the monster, but sometimes things go wrong and they just have to live with it. Dean taught him that early on.

The first thing he does when he comes through the door is wrap the two of them in a tight hug. Sam can feel his heart pounding against his ear, fast and frantic. He lets go of them just as fast and trudges into the bathroom, wordlessly, door locking behind him.

Dean tells Sam not to ask questions, not to bother Dad. Sam's never been so good at taking orders.

"Can I look at your book?" he asks, once Dad is dried and dressed and slumped on the couch in front of the TV.

"Which book?" Dad asks, eyes fixed on the screen.

"The one with the monster pictures," says Sam.

"That's not a book for reading, Sammy."

"I just want to look at something."

"Sam, no."

"I'll be quick. You can supervise."

"I said no!" Dad snaps, and Sam backs up a step. Dad's face doesn't soften, he fixes his hollow eyes on the television and grips the arm of the couch like he'll fall if he doesn't. Dean is watching quietly from his station at the kitchen table, undressing and reassembling guns over and over, quick and efficient like he's solving a Rubik's cube.

Sam spots Dad's book peeking out of his coat pocket, hanging on the back of the door. He's tempted, but Dad will see if he takes it. Behind him, Dean watches without a word.

Sam goes for it when Dad gets up to take a leak. He ignores his brother's gaze and snatches the leather-bound journal from Dad's coat pocket, flipping through the pages as fast as he can. There are all kinds of creepy pictures and Dad's thick near-illegible scrawl fills even the margins. He's thrown back to almost a year ago at Christmas when he stole the book the first time and realised everything inside wasn't just a story.

Wendigos, werewolves, banshees, chupacabras… no wrinkled old men that live in the attic.

"Sam, what did I just tell you!" Dad is right behind him, face turning red with fury. He yanks the book out of Sam's hands and says, "This is not for you to read."

"I – I just wanted – "

"I don't care," Dad snaps. He turns his anger onto Dean, "Why didn't you stop him? You're supposed to watch your brother. This book isn't a toy, he isn't old enough to read it yet."

Dean drops his head and says, "I'm sorry, sir."

Around them, the wooden walls creak and the door shakes. Sam knows it's not just because of the wind, but Dean and Dad don't seem to notice.

Dad turns back to Sam. "Go to bed. Now."

Sam's eyes fall on the unclean plates and empty takeout containers on the table.

"Now, Sam."

"Can I just clean up first?"

Dad blinks at him, clearly not the answer he was expecting. He and Dean share a look, a whole conversation about Sam is happening right in front of him, no words needed. Dad sighs and waves his hand at the mess.

"Clean it up, then straight to bed. We'll have a talk in the morning."

Sam makes sure to be thorough, tossing the cardboard takeout containers into the trash, scrubbing the plates until they look brand new. Grandpa wouldn't be happy if the place were a mess, but he hates when they argue even more. Sam started it, he should have known better.

Dad sleeps on the couch now that he's back. He's out before Sam, so is Dean. The two of them snore softly on either side of him. He listens to them, and the high-pitched howl of the wind coming down the chimney. He peers, eyes straining in the dark, towards the kitchen, but there's nothing under the oven, the latch up to the attic remains sealed shut.

He ducks his entire head under the blankets and closes his eyes, and he thinks he might finally sleep through the night. Dean is warm beside him, the blanket is pulled up high over Sam's head, and Dad is finally back, only a meter away. He's eased enough to drift.

It doesn't last long, and Sam is roused to wakefulness when the room is still dark. Something is tugging tightly at his hair, pulling at the scalp hard enough to sting. He can't move, head pinned against the pillow, and he squeezes his eyes closed, hand grabbing onto Dean's. He pulls away, rolling onto his side with a sleepy groan.

But Dad's always been a light sleeper. The light flicks on and the _bang_ that fills the room is loud enough that Sam's ears ring. Dean jolts up, but Sam stays down, hands pressed over his face.

There's another _bang_ , followed by a sickening squawk. Sam peels his eyes open, hand flying up to the knotted hair on his head. Dad is in the kitchen, gun shiny under the lamplight as he aims it downwards.

Dean is trying to pull Sam back, but Sam slips out of his hold and hurries to the kitchen. There's nothing there, and Dad is already marching outside with a flashlight, ordering Dean and Sam to stay put.

Sam knows where to look, and he sneaks a glance under the oven. Grandpa is curled up tightly, shaking with fear, or maybe he's angry, it's hard to tell under all that white hair. Dean fetches his gun from under his pillow, running out on Dad's heals.

Sam stays put as Grandpa's beady black eyes meet his. He tears a chunk of bread from the loaf in the cupboard and rolls it under, pretending he doesn't see a thing.

* * *

 **A/N:**

The Domovoi, or Domovoy, meaning 'master' or 'Grandfather' originates from Slavic folklore. It usually resides under the stove, the doorway, or in the attic. Its appearance is like that of a tiny old man whose face is covered with white fur, or as a 'double' of the head of a house. While they're mostly harmless, these spirits are tricksters and mischief-makers who tickle sleeping people. When it gets displeased it knocks on the walls, throws pans and plates and squalls. But it also protects the house and the family members. If needed it would steal from the neighbors to satiate the family and even attacks the domovoy of other families. But beware the wrath of these folklore creatures, for Domovoy are also known for their harmful mischief. One legend tells of a woman whose Domovoy braided her hair every night, and ordered her never to undo the braid. For 30 years she never combed her hair until her wedding night, when she decided to wash it. Her family found her brutally strangled the next morning with her own braid. If you want to befriend a Domovoy for yourself then you'll have to have a stable and peaceful household environment. You will have to leave breads under the stove and old boots in the closet as invitations.


End file.
